It's the Little Things
by Glass Prism
Summary: ...that can change everything. The train scene, Wesley and Cross, minor AU.
1. Chapter 1

Ah, _Wanted_. I was rather obsessed with this movie for a few months. Even wrote a massive FanFiction on it. But it died, as did the fic. But I wanted there to be _some_ evidence of the time and effort I put into it, so... here's one chapter. Read and review! Or don't; I'm fairly neutral either way.

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IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS

* * *

The door to the train compartment slid open and Wesley found himself walking around in a muffled silence. The only sound above whisper level was that of the train on the tracks; a rather stark contrast to the loud bustle he had faced outside. It was a challenge to force himself to try and act, well, normal. Six weeks of brandishing guns around without any consequences was a hard habit to get rid of. He stuffed the gun out of sight in his pocket and hoped he didn't look too obvious about it.

He looked behind himself. Fox was gone. Last he saw her, she had been chasing Pekwarsky through the station. He hoped she was all right, then snorted. Of course she would be all right. She was Fox. He was more worried about himself. For the first time, he was truly on his own.

Now, where was Cross?

As he walked down the aisle, he caught a glimmer in his peripheral vision. There was a car following the train, and just as he was reflecting on how pointless it was to be driving when there was a frigging train out here, he realized who it had to be – Fox. So he wasn't really alone…. He glanced from side to side quickly as he neared the end of the aisle. Cross was not among the passengers, so he had to be ahead –

He realized it one second too late.

Suddenly he felt someone grab him from behind. Arms wrapped around his shoulder and, as he reached for his gun, wrenched his hand away. He forced himself back and slammed Cross into the window – and in front of him he saw Fox's car catch up to their window, saw her raise a gun –

The bullet shattered the window and went flying at their heads, but Wesley did not see it. Cross jerked them both down and they hit the floor, almost trampled on by the horde of screaming people fleeing for another compartment. Wesley rolled over, saw Cross looking up towards the window where Fox had shot at them, and, trying to take advantage of his distraction, grabbed his gun and raised his arm –

Only to have Cross punch his wrist down and another wave of pain followed. Wesley barely managed to hold back his gasp of pain; his whole arm was numb now.

Cross grabbed him and almost hurled him against one of the seats. Wesley lashed out with his arm but Cross caught it; leaning into his ear, he whispered,

"Wesley-"

Wesley head slammed him – or tried. Cross leaped back and shoved Wesley onto the floor, disappearing into the next compartment. With pain still ripping from his shoulder down, Wesley dragged himself up and grabbed his gun in his other hand. People from the other compartments were fleeing down toward him, and with no other choice, Wesley raised his gun and shouted,

"Out of the way! Out of the way!"

He forced himself through the door and saw Cross on the other side, aiming his gun – but not at Wesley. Frantically he looked and saw Fox's car –

He shouted. "No!"

Cross fired. The window did not shatter; instead, the bullet drilled its way out, leaving a neat hole and a small web of cracks. Passengers screamed and fled towards Wesley, surging around him. He yelled and fought his way through them, finally shoving himself into a clear position only to see Fox's car swerve out of control and tumble into the ditch between the road and the train.

"No!" he screamed again, raised his gun and shot wildly at Cross, saw the other man's left arm jerk suddenly –

The car exploded through the train. Pushed by its own momentum, it had ended up rolling out of the ditch and crashing against the lower half of the train. Glass shattered, metal walls and sidings bent and Wesley saw Cross throw himself behind a seat. Without a thought for himself or for Fox, Wesley hurtled over the car, smashing into people, bodies, seats…

It was as he made it to the other end that he saw Cross suddenly whirl around, gun in hand and aimed squarely at Wesley's chest. He realized that he was going to be shot; that he was going to die at the hands of his father's murderer, his vengeance unfulfilled.

Time seemed lose its grip on him, as if he were standing outside its stream. In his last few precious seconds of life, he could see Cross's expression even in the dim light, see him pull a trigger and the bullet leave the barrel, see the man's determination – and see how it turned to sudden, unexplainable fear –

Wesley saw the muscles in Cross's cheek and neck tense. The man swung his arm in a way not dissimilar from the curving movement of a Fraternity member's arm – and the bullet flew to the side.

Wesley saw it pass inches from his face seconds before he felt the sudden pain stinging the left side of his chest. He fell, and the impact, the shuddering of the train, sent white-hot pain vibrating up to his shoulder, so terrible it blinded him. He barely managed to hold back a yell – he would not scream, he would not give his father's killer the satisfaction of seeing him in pain – aware in the sudden haze of pain only of gritting his teeth to hold it back. He rolled over and felt a lessening of pain, put a hand to where it hurt and felt blood –

Two things happened then. The first, as he forced himself back to his feet despite another lance of pain (but it was nothing, nothing compared to the training he had undertaken in the Fraternity, nothing compared to the bullet he had dug out of his own arm), was that he saw Cross leave the safety of his seat and grab him. Too stunned and in pain to resist at first, Wesley was pushed to the back by the front of his shirt and slammed against the wall of the train. Dizzy and out of breath, Wesley still couldn't understand when Cross grabbed his shoulders and shouted into his ear, "Hold on!"

That was when the second thing happened.

Pushed off the track by the car, the train _tilted_.

For one second, they were frozen in that slanted position, one side of the train's wheels still caught in the track. Wesley was half-slipping and Cross was on him, gripping his shoulders in a vice-like grip –

Then they fell against the train's walls, and the train slipped free of the track, and the moment broke.

The world suddenly flipped.

The train turned and spun and Wesley felt himself slammed into the window and the glass pierce through his jacket just as the train's side hit the ground. The two impacts thudded through his body like thunder, deep, shuddering – and then the window he had hit exploded up, up over him in a shower of glass particles – until the train rolled over again, and again, and the other side hit the ground and the glass came flying back down at his face.

He covered his face instinctively at the same moment that he felt a great jerk at his arms, almost wrenching his arms from their sockets, and then he slid across metal ridging and heard the glass sprinkling on the metal and ground, but not him, no expected piercing or blinding –

The train's spinning stopped with a sudden jerk that sent Wesley into the wall, his head colliding into the metal surface. Pain exploded behind his eyes in a starburst and he knew nothing.

Creaking.

That was what he first registered – the harsh sound of metal on metal, and he thought for a moment that the damn train was going by his window again and Cathy would be on him to get a new apartment, _again_ –

He tried to move his head to respond before she could speak, but then pain struck him somewhere in the forehead, behind his eyes, and some dim memory struggled up to the surface of his mind – a train, rolling –

He opened his eyes.

He was looking up into the ceiling, or what he assumed was the ceiling. His vision was blurred, overly-bright; he blinked several times, trying to clear it, but nothing happened. It felt like it took a great effort just to stay awake. There didn't seem to be any strength left in his body. He wondered vaguely where Fox was, but he didn't know and couldn't make himself focus on the thought for long. He was only aware of a dull nausea gripping him, pain down his chest and side, and a warm stickiness spreading along the left side of his chest and side and soaking into the sleeve of his arm.

Wesley closed his eyes and lay there. From what seemed like a great distance, he heard moving glass and wreckage, then hurried steps.

"Wesley?"

That voice seemed familiar, but he couldn't think how. He felt hands grab his shoulders and lift him up, felt himself being propped against something…

"Wesley, we have to go. Can you walk?"

No, he certainly could not walk, and furthermore, he didn't want to. Metal had never seemed a particularly comfortable material for sleeping, but this kind was unusually cool and soothing –

He felt hands grab him and he pushed himself off, feeling smooth leather against his fingers – and only then did he remember.

"Shit!" he gasped, really forcing himself back now – where did his gun go, he couldn't find his gun, and all he felt was glass pricking at his fingertips – until Cross grabbed him again.

"Stop moving. You are hurt and we have to leave now."

"I – I am not going with – with you!" Wesley managed to say. He shoved Cross back but it was a weak push; Cross's hands didn't even loosen.

"Wesley…" Cross stopped, looking around. All was silent on the train. "There's much you need to know about the Fraternity-"

Wesley pushed away his hand. "Get away – get away-"

"-but we have to leave-"

"_Fuck_ – fuck y-"

"Listen to me!" Cross jerked at Wesley's shirt. "If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead."

He had a point there.

Cross continued, "Let me get you out and then we can keep fighting, all right?"

Wesley glared at him with as much energy as he could muster, but there was nothing else he could do. He nodded. Cross sighed, and Wesley wondered if he had guessed that Wesley was planning his imminent demise. It was strangely difficult to care, though…

"Good," said Cross. "Get up-"

Wesley tried, but slipped on his own blood and fell on to the floor. He gasped again as his shoulder smacked into the glass. Forget Fraternity training; he was in too much pain and just so tired…

Then he was being lifted by one arm and placed into a seat. He settled his head into the cushion. Staying in the train really didn't seem like a bad idea…

A sound made him crack open his eyes. Cross was at one of the broken windows, breaking any glass still in place with his gun. He looked outside, then crossed to Wesley and lifted him to his feet again.

"Wesley. I need you to go through the window. Can you do that?"

"Mmkay…" He grabbed at the edges, something gnawing at the edge of his mind. "My gun…"

"Nevermind it. Go."

"No…" The gnawing grew stronger. "It's my father's gun…"

"Your – Wesley, you will get another, now – no!"

Later he would realize he was probably delirious from pain and the whole messed up situation, but at the time all he remembered was that he could not lose his father's gun. Perhaps it was something to do with Cross and this idea that he had to take down the man with his dad's old weapon. Maybe he just didn't want to be defenseless. Whatever it was, it gave him enough strength to push himself away from the window and try to look for it.

It wasn't much of an attempt – as soon as he left the support of the wall he collapsed, cutting his hands on the glass. He couldn't even look much there because within seconds Cross had grabbed him and hauled him bodily out the window.

He hit the ground hard, the long grass not helping to break a rather longer fall than he was expecting. He felt dirt getting into his cuts and the grass pricking at his skin, but couldn't do much more than roll on to an uninjured side of his body. The sunlight was beating down upon his head, blinding him.

The sound of someone else landing on the ground, probably with much more grace than he could ever manage, still wasn't enough to get him out of his stunned stupor. That same person shaking at his arm, though…

"Wesley. Get up."

"Mm…"

"We can't stay here, Wesley."

Then he was lifted up again, one arm slung over Cross's shoulder, and half walked, half dragged up the slope. Through hazy vision Wesley could see the destruction around them – the entire train, half of it off the track in some sort of wide semi-circle, the rest partly on the track. The tracks had been raised above the rest of the surrounding land, and they had to trek up the slope, across the tracks, and down another incline to reach the road, which was leveled above them somewhat. By the time they had done this, Wesley was soaked from a mixture of sweat and blood.

Cross let him collapse on the dirt street when it was over and strode away. Wesley closed his eyes. He could hear the man talking.

"…have him. He's injured." He felt Cross's shadow over him, felt him move away. "Yes. Yes, we'll be waiting." He heard rocks and sand crackling. "You'll know it when you see it."

Wesley heard Cross come closer and knew the man was leaning over him again.

"Get up. We have to get off the road."

Wesley was really in no mood to move around, and tried to make this clear by grunting his disagreement.

"We're in clear view," said Cross, apparently interpreting that as a question. "If anyone comes along, they might see us. Come…"

He felt Cross grab him and pull him to his feet again. They moved a short distance into the bushes lining the ditch. Cross kneeled down and seemed intent on keeping Wesley up and next to him, but Wesley wasn't going to stand next to his father's killer a moment longer, not if he could help it. He pushed himself away and landed in a lot of prickly grass.

"Careful," he heard Cross say. He blinked up at the man, who was watching him calmly. Cross went on, "You're hurt."

"What… do you… care?"

Cross didn't answer. Wesley tried to find a good spot to just lie in, but everything was poking at him, and the entire place was sloped downward. After a few moments of rolling around he gave up and just lay there. One half of him felt ashamed and humiliated. He should be trying to take down this man, and instead he was lying here like some pussy, barely able to walk. The other half just wanted to shut up and sleep. He decided to obey that half. He closed his eyes and curled up on the dirt.

It seemed like only a few seconds passed before Cross was shaking him and hauling him up.

"Get up," said Cross. "We're leaving."

Wesley opened his eyes and rolled over sluggishly. In the distance he could see a car coming towards them. Cross grabbed Wesley and got to his feet, pulling the younger man up with him.

"You…" Wesley paused to get his tongue working. "You going to kill me now?"

"No."

The answer should have been a surprise, but somehow his pain-addled brain couldn't make it so. Everything seemed to be entering his mind in a fog.

"Why not?"

Cross looked as if he were about to answer, but then the car pulled up in front of the wreckage of the train and they were moving out of the ditch, Wesley dragged alongside. He felt dull and resigned to the whole thing. Were they going to take him hostage? Torture him? He didn't really know and, at the moment, didn't particularly care. He just wanted to lie down and rest.

A man poked his head out from the window and Wesley recognized him – Pekwarsky.

"You did it," was all the old man said.

Cross opened the door and pushed Wesley inside. "We have to leave, quickly," he said as he got in. "The other one might still be alive."

Pekwarsky nodded and hit the gas. The car swerved tightly and started back down the road, Wesley bumping into the other side of the car.

"Watch the blood," said Pekwarsky. Wesley felt indignation prickle at the back of his mind. Pekwarsky jerked the wheel about and said, as casually as if they were talking about the weather, "I see you had some… complications."

"A few." Cross pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around Wesley's body, then buckled his seatbelt for him. It was warm and comforting and Wesley did not like the feeling at all. He also didn't like it when Cross put a hand to Wesley's head. It felt oddly parental, and it made Wesley feel sick. "He is injured."

"So are you. Bad?"

"I'm not sure." Cross let go of him. "Wesley…"

Wesley tried to crawl as far away from the man as possible, but didn't succeed very well – a combination of the seatbelt and his own weakness.

"Let me see." Cross pushed Wesley's arm out of the way and poked a bit at the wound in his chest. Wesley gritted his teeth at the pain, his mind screaming at him to punch, hit, fight back, but his body equally adamant that it could not do any of that. Then he heard Cross move back and say, "No. A few hours in recovery and he'll be fine."

Recovery. They were going to let him heal? For what? He tried to think on it but couldn't get any ideas. Cross's fingers brushed against Wesley's hair, stayed there. Wesley grunted again, trying to push him off, but Cross wasn't budging.

"I was asking about your injuries, not his," said Pekwarsky, sounding rather exasperated.

Cross ignored that. "How far are we?"

"Just a few hours. Can he hold on until then?"

"Yes."

"Good. And enough time for a father-son chat between you, right?"

Cross's hand jerked away from Wesley's head. The last words took a long time to penetrate Wesley's brain as a sudden silence fell between the two. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the two.

"What…" He swallowed, tasted blood. "What did you say?"

Pekwarsky shot a glance at Cross through the mirror. "You didn't tell him."

"I had no time." Wesley felt Cross's hand brush over him again and jerked back, yet when Cross spoke again there was a distinct note of fondness in his tone. "And he didn't seem to want to hear."

"Hear what?" asked Wesley, feeling the words slur. He shook his head and felt Cross grab at him to stop him from moving. He jerked back, staring at the man. "Tell me what? What were you going to tell me?"

Cross looked back at Pekwarsky. "Wesley…"

"Who are you?" Wesley demanded. Louder, when he received no answer, "Who _the hell_ are you?"

"Wesley, I'm your father."

That feeling – it was like when he had slammed into the ground in the train, a deep shudder in his body. "No…" He slumped against the door, drained. "_No_…"

"You are my son."

Wesley let his head rest against the window, hoping the coolness of the glass would unfog his brain and force everything to make sense. It did not, only got a bloody streak on it.

"Did they …" he mumbled, as Cross moved him away from the car door. This time he didn't resist. "Did the Fraternity…?"

Cross answered his unfinished question. "Yes. They knew."

"The Fraternity knew that you were the only one your father would not kill," said Pekwarsky from the front. "So they tracked you down and lied to you, used you."

Wesley pushed himself away from them again. "I – I don't believe you." He wrapped the jacket – Cross's jacket (his father's jacket, a voice whispered, but he pushed it away) – tighter around himself.

"It goes further than that," Pekwarsky went on. "Sloan's name-"

"Shh." That was Cross.

"He needs to know-"

"Later. You're tiring him."

And Wesley hated how concerned he sounded. He closed his eyes again and rested his head against the seat. The shaking of the car was lulling him into a half-conscious state.

He started awake when he felt something cold being pressed against his forehead and muttered a protest which was promptly ignored.

"You would be better off cleaning your own wound," Pekwarsky said from up front.

"I'm fine."

"Did the boy do that?"

"Yes."

He had shot Cross? When had that happened? He tried to go over his memory but couldn't go beyond the last few minutes. It hurt his head to think and he decided to just let Cross work, though getting back to sleep with him dabbing at him was rather difficult. When the car went over a particularly large bump, Wesley found himself leaning against Cross's shoulder. He was going to shift away, but then Cross put an arm around him and just held him there, and continued to wipe at his face.

"How is he?" asked Pekwarsky. It seemed to take a long time for the words to really register, and even then Wesley found himself not really caring that they were talking about him.

"A lot of glass in him, injury to the head, and a gunshot wound."

"You shot him?"

"It was an accident."

Pekwarsky didn't sound particularly concerned. "He shot you, you shot him. I suppose you two can consider yourselves even."

"No. I've shot him twice. He's only shot me once." Wesley felt Cross move the jacket aside and push up the sleeve of his left shirt. He could vaguely remember being hit there…

There was a silence, Wesley falling into a doze and coming out whenever Cross started cleaning at him again. When he was about as clean as he was going to get, Cross covered him up with his jacket and pulled him in closer.

After that, Wesley didn't remember much, just flashes as he came out of his sleep – the trees speeding by, the brief glare of the sun on his eyes before Cross covered his face with the jacket, the skyline of Chicago, and finally the car stopping in front of a house.

Cross shook Wesley, though he was already awake. "Wesley, we're here."

Wesley got up slowly. His head swam with the movement and he almost fell over again.

Cross steadied him, pulled Wesley's arm around him, and helped him out of the car. Dimly, Wesley noticed that he seemed to be favoring his left side slightly, but was otherwise moving normally.

Pekwarsky poked his head out of the front window. "Get inside quickly. They may be watching."

"Yes. Thank you."

Pekwarsky nodded, then drove away. Cross and Wesley were alone. It was dark, even the street lamps not enough to give them more than a dim view of things up ahead. Cross helped him until they reached the first stairs, asking, "Can you make it?"

"Yes," Wesley mumbled, then promptly slid off of Cross and slumped on the steps, leaning against the railing. He heard Cross sigh. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Never mind. Here…"

Cross grabbed him again. Little by little, the two went up what seemed like an insurmountable staircase. Finally, the man deposited a wheezing Wesley onto the floor so that he could unlock the front door, then dragged the younger man inside. The noise of the traffic dimmed as Cross shut the door and helped Wesley into another room, where he deposited him on a bed.

Wesley closed his eyes as he flopped back against the pillow. He heard Cross move next to him, then nothing. For a few moments they said nothing, Wesley concentrating only on getting the dizziness to recede.

A quiet clink made him start. He mumbled, "Whazat?"

"Gun." Cross moved back slightly. Wesley blinked. Cross had returned his gun, the one he thought had been left in the wrecked train, had put it on the end table next to the bed.

"Mine…?" No, his father's gun. Cross's gun… right?

"You seemed to want it rather badly." There was an emotion in Cross's tone that he couldn't quite decipher, half humorous, half scolding. It was distinctly odd, as Wesley had never been talked to that way before.

"Thanks…" He slumped into the bed. But though he felt so tired and aching sore, he had to ask, "Was it… yours?" Or had he been lied to about that, too? He had grown attached to that weapon, had thought of it as one of the few connections to a father he would never know. It made him feel dirty inside to think it was not.

"Yes. One of mine."

That was more of a relief than he wanted to let on. He was about to slide into comforting sleep when he was shaken awake by Cross – not hard, but enough to make his head start swimming again.

"Don't sleep, Wesley. I'm going to put you into recovery."

Wesley mumbled something into the pillow.

"What?"

He raised his head slightly. "Where are we?"

"My apartment." He heard Cross shift closer to him.

"Why…?"

He cracked open his eyes when he heard the floor creak, and saw Cross kneel next to him and put his fingers to Wesley's forehead again. He said, "It's the only way you'll believe me."

Wesley sighed as Cross turned him around. He blinked his eyes open and saw the man looking over his wound again. "I think… I already do." He smiled weakly at the man. Perhaps it was the blood loss, or maybe the possible concussion, but it was true. Who else but his real father would go to this much trouble?

Cross looked surprised, then gave him a tentative smile in return. He touched Wesley's face again, now looking just a bit disbelieving. "I didn't think we would get this far."

"What?"

"You, here, safe."

Wesley tried to get up and ended up flopping back into the mattress. He saw Cross reach instinctively for him.

"Maybe… maybe not that safe…" said Wesley sheepishly.

"Well, as safe as possible." Cross got up. "And there's still so much to tell you."

Wesley nodded, lifting himself up. He still felt sick and confused and in a lot of pain, but the prospect of so many new changes and information somehow didn't seem all that frightening, not with his father around.

"I'm ready."

* * *

FIN


	2. Chapter 2

Well, I got a couple people asking for a sequel. This... wouldn't be considered a sequel, more of another alternate situation, but it's the only one I really like. (I did write some more - I wrote a lot, actually - but I didn't think any of it was good enough to put up.) So yeah, have some more of the same!

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IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS (Chapter 2)

* * *

Wesley sat on the couch and grinned. Fox's kiss – her insanely awesome, fiery, blow-all-others-out-of-the-water kiss – could still be tasted on his lips. He was completely aware that it was to shut his old girlfriend up - he might have taken a level in badass since joining the Fraternity, but he wasn't going to kid himself into thinking he was anywhere near Fox's level. But God had it been good.

He took a deep breath, trying and failing to wipe the cheeky smile from his face. He had finished his training, his father's (wet and probably unusable) gun was stuffed away in his jacket, and he had just made out with the sexiest woman he had ever seen. Yeah, okay, he was sitting on a moldy couch in the middle of a darkened alley that was crawling with rats, but for once, life was good.

But as Wesley had learned over the years, fate liked to take his best moments and shove it up its ass.

He watched the rats for a moment longer, something niggling in his head. One of them skittered away from him, drawing his gaze up, but he was still so blanked out on Fox's kiss that he didn't quite take in the sight ahead of it.

Then he re-focused and recognized the figure standing behind a broken-down car.

Cross.

"Shit!"

He sprang off the couch and dropped under the cover of rusted car, catching a fleeting glimpse of his nemesis drawing his own gun. He risked a shot, the blast of the gun shattering the quiet night. Half a second later he heard Cross's gunshot – and saw, through his adrenaline haze, his bullet collide squarely with Cross's and bounce off one another. As the two bullets separated, he realized Cross had disappeared.

_Shit!_ He leaped to his feet and saw the man running across the street. Wesley swore again and ran, smashed into a car and skidded on top of its front, riding perhaps ten feet into the street – "_Asshole!_" he heard someone shout – and shot several times. He missed, he knew he had missed, had seen Cross jump and roll and sparks fly off the pavement. The car screeched to a stop and he slid off and heard a massive crunch as another car slammed into it, saw Cross dash into the train station across. He aimed again but the man had reached the stairs and ducked under an overhanging billboard. Wesley cursed yet again and sprinted across, shoving people out of the way.

In contrast to the busy night streets outside, the train station was totally deserted. Wesley let loose a volley of bullets until his gun had emptied its magazine. Only then did he slow his run, knowing that neither he nor Cross could afford to make noise. On that thought, he slipped behind a column and tossed aside his empty gun. As he cocked the pistol, he thought it fitting that he bring down his father's murderer with his gun of the man he had murdered.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Wesley took several quick breaths, felt himself slipping into his adrenaline mode, and felt his heartbeat quicken yet heard it slow to a heavy thump as he drowned in his haze –

He heard Cross's step, one, two, three drawing ever closer.

_Now!_ And he dashed out, his heartbeat loud against his eardrums, gun aimed at –

Nothing. As he glanced frantically around, at the pillars, the balconies above, the buildings nearby, he felt the mood slip away, unused, wasted.

The sound of steps behind him made him spin around, gun up once more.

"Whoa!" The man held up his hands.

Wesley jerked back his gun just in time, heart racing for a different reason now. "Russian. What are you doing here?" He lowered his weapon.

"Fox, she called." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. In the distance, Wesley could see the Repairman and the Gunsmith trotting over. Backup. Great.

He sighed. "Ah. Well, um... tell her thanks."

The Russian nodded eagerly. His eyes flicked over Wesley's shoulder. "You see Cross?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know. He's gone by now." Wesley shook his head in frustration. He had been so _close_...

"Ah. I go tell others."

The Russian trotted off, stopping the Repairman and the Gunsmith. Wesley watched the three for a few moments, the Gunsmith and Repairman's stoic calm an odd contrast to the Russian's twitchy movements. He turned away, balling his hands. His disappointment was growing. If only he had aimed just a bit better, had been a few feet closer, he could have avenged his father's death on his own - no backup needed, no piece of cloth telling him what to do. As helpful as the Fraternity and Fox had been, he didn't need them around 24/7. And they would not be next time. It would just be him and Cross, facing each other down.

The sound of a gunshot behind him made him whirl around.

A bullet whizzed by him, circled, heading straight for the Fraternity members many feet ahead of him. He turned, shouted something, he would never know what, saw the Repairman fall –

He turned around and ran down the building, not seeing Cross but knowing he was there, knowing that he was the one who had made the shot. He could hear yelling behind him but could not pick out individual voices –

Another crack of a gunshot and he dived, slamming into the ground and splashing into a puddle, wetness soaking his sweater – and behind him heard another yell, the sound of someone falling. Instinctively, frantically, he turned and saw, in the distance, two shapes on the ground, not moving – and the Russian, running towards him –

A shot, and as Wesley ran down the final curve of the building he saw Cross, half crouching, gun finishing its arc and a third bullet soaring out –

He threw himself down again, then rolled, heard the bullet fly over his head –

A small cry made him turn and see the Russian, clutching his leg, falling to the ground –

Wesley shouted, "No!"

He stood –

A little gray cone was flying at him, and it seemed like all the weeks of training just left him and he was staring uncomprehendingly at it.

There was a burst of pain at his arm. It shot up his shoulder and down his wrist, blinding him with its intensity. One wild, strange thought burst into consciousness – _a bullet, that's what it was, a bullet, the Gunsmith was going to kill him for not knowing that_ –

– and then he knew nothing.

* * *

The sound of a train speeding by was the first thing he became aware of. The next was of light flashing against his eyelids in a steady pattern. Then it was of pain, dull but steadily invading his consciousness. Despite all this, it was a few more seconds before he realized that he was slumped against a chair, that he was dripping wet and soaking into the cushion, and that there was something warm wrapped around his body.

He opened his eyes and looked around blearily. He was in a darkened room; across from him was a window, the blinds drawn down but not closed. Through it, he could see the train rolling by, throwing its reflection against the blinds and causing the blinking light pattern that had woken him up. Wesley himself was sitting in an armchair, and the warmth was that of a blanket draped around him and which he was currently soaking with water. Water... where had that come from? His tired brain pushed that thought aside for later. He blinked down at his arm, the source of the throbbing pain. It looked, to his blurred vision, like a small red hole oozing blood and pus. Moving his arm – which he did, ever so gently – sent a sharp pain up and down his arm and, worst of all, let him feel an odd, hard lump _inside_ him, _pushing_ against skin and muscle. The bullet – and hating the feeling of it, the _foreignness_ of it in his arm, Wesley gritted his teeth and reached for the wound, preparing to pull it out.

"Wait."

He jumped and almost dislodged the blanket at the unfamiliar voice. The pain in his arm increased and for a few seconds kept him from comprehending the man standing next to him, but the shock was no less – _Cross_.

He shot up in his seat, fumbling in his pants (he had pants on?) for a gun, a weapon, anything. All he could think of was the Repairman and the Gunsmith falling before Cross's bullets; of Russian, bleeding and crying out –

"Wesley, stop."

Wesley edged back as the man moved closer, though every movement had him gritting his teeth to hold back the pain.

"Get away-" he hissed. "Get the _fuck_ away from me…"

Cross grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him back into the seat, pinning Wesley's arms down. Wesley struggled fiercely but could not free himself, and settled for glaring hatefully at the man.

"I'm not going to hurt you," said Cross. He kneeled down next to him. "I need to take out the bullet."

What? He followed Cross's gaze and saw his gunshot injury, now dripping blood on to his arm and the chair. What the fuck was going on? The man had shot him and now he wanted to help get it out?

Cross lifted up his hands, watching Wesley warily for signs of struggle. "Stay," he said. Wesley wanted to punch him. As Cross pulled out a pair of tweezers, Wesley prodded at his wound, gritting his teeth at the pain.

"This will hurt," warned Cross. Wesley rolled his eyes and turned away.

Cross dug into the wound. Wesley cried out, grabbing onto the arms of the chair, trying to focus on something, the noise of the train passing by, the light dancing on the back of his eyelids. The pain was excruciating. He grabbed at the chair's arms so hard that he felt his knuckles and fingers go numb, and thought that surely Cross must be torturing him, slicing at his muscles and working at the nerves until the wound would grow infected and Wesley would be ill and helpless –

Then it stopped. Or at least it dulled down to levels he could handle. Wesley released a breath he had not known he was holding, becoming aware of the sudden stillness now that the train was not shaking the foundations of the building. He opened his eyes and, through pain-hazed vision, saw Cross lean down and pick up what was presumably the bullet.

Cross grabbed Wesley's arm, perhaps sensing that Wesley was about to put up a fight again. "Wait. Let me bandage it," he said. Wesley nodded weakly, but as Cross rose, he saw the man's jacket open a little and a glimmer of metal catch his eye. He knew with sure instinct what it was: a gun.

Cross turned back and Wesley quickly closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, not moving, trying to hide his agitation, letting the pain fall to a dull ache. There seemed to be more blood spurting from the wound now; he could feel it dribbling down his arm and onto the blanket.

The creak of the floorboards told him that Cross was near. He cracked open his eyes a bit and saw the man crouch near him once more. After a few moments he felt a light dabbing of the wound, then a stinging sensation. He managed to keep in his grunt of pain this time. Antibiotics, he assumed. He missed the Fraternity baths. But then he remembered that he was all wet himself, and that Cross was a former Fraternity member. The idea made him wonder, distracting him from the pain for a few moments.

Cross had laid a cloth bandage over it and was taping it to his arm. Wesley gripped the seat, winding up his body in preparation. He would have only one shot at this; if he missed, Cross would likely kill him, though why he hadn't done so already – why he was, in fact, patching him up, why he had actually brought him back and helped him – puzzled Wesley. He put it out of his mind; he would find the answer to that soon enough.

He heard Cross move, and opened his eyes. There was a white gauze bandage wrapped around his arm, though it was quickly being stained red. Even turning his head to look at it caused his arm to shift slightly, loosening the bandage. As he watched, a reddish-clear fluid escaped the wrapping and dribbled down his arm.

Cross grabbed at his shoulder, holding him still. "Don't move," he said. He wiped Wesley's arm with the blanket and pulled the bandage tighter. "You need to be still if you want it to heal," he went on, releasing Wesley's arm. "You should not use it. I will go and-"

Wesley moved. Taking advantage of Cross's distraction, he whipped his uninjured arm around and thrust his right hand into Cross's jacket. The man started to leap back but it was too late. Wesley felt the handle of the gun in Cross's coat pocket, wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it out as Cross managed to jerk away –

Then Wesley was upright, toppling over his chair, blanket falling off him and the gun firmly in his hands and pointed at Cross. The older man stood slowly, and Wesley wondered why he wasn't staring at the gun, why he was staring at Wesley. Impassively, actually. It scared Wesley just a bit, made him wonder what trick the man used that kept him so calm.

"Wesley-"

"Shut up," Wesley said, gripping the gun tighter. The pain in his newly bandaged arm was intensifying, making his head swim from the pain. _Now,_ said the little voice in Wesley's head, do it now. Kill the man who murdered your father. But why was the man so calm?

"Wesley," Cross said again, and Wesley took back that last thought. He could hear urgency now. "listen to me-"

"Shut up," he said again. He could feel a growing wetness under the bandage but didn't dare to look at it. "Just – shut up. Don't talk to me."

"You are hurting yourself," Cross said with even more desperation. "Stop moving-"

"I said shut up!" Wesley shouted, jerking the gun. "Don't talk to me! You _do not_ get to talk to me, you _lying_ _piece of_-"

A flash of light caught his eye. He turned instinctively, trying at the same time to keep Cross in his gaze.

Sunlight had passed over the gilded frame of a photograph. He looked at it, glanced swiftly back at Cross, still standing at the opposite side of the room, then looked back at the photo. It looked like a school photo of a child, not more than six years old. Cross had a kid?

Why should he care? It would just be all the more satisfying that he deprive Cross's possible child of a father. The same way Cross had deprived Wesley of a father. Karma, really.

"You can go look at it," said Cross from where he stood. He gestured to the picture, and Wesley realized he had let himself look puzzled. "The photo."

Wesley wiped his face clean of expression, trying to get back that cool, calm look everyone else in the Fraternity had perfected. Yet he looked back, feeling hesitation steal into his mind.

_No._ He mentally shook his head. He was an assassin, a weapon of fate, and Cross's name had come up on the Loom. And Cross had killed his father.

Then why was it so hard for him to pull the trigger?

Maybe it was because Cross had no weapon, was just standing there. He couldn't just kill a defenseless man.

_Asshole,_ he berated himself. Cross had blindsided his own father on a rooftop, betrayed him. He probably had a weapon hidden somewhere in that jacket of his and was just waiting for Wesley to make one wrong move. And if Cross had caught Wesley's father off guard, then it was only right that Wesley do the same.

But he didn't want to become like Cross.

He couldn't even think properly anymore. His arm hurt so much, he didn't want to keep holding that gun up, keep looking at Cross, watching him calmly.

From his place, Cross said quietly, "Go ahead."

_A trick,_ Wesley said to himself. A fucking trick to get him to lower his guard, and then he would attack. He gritted his teeth. Well, he could definitely make sure that wouldn't happen. He squeezed the trigger -

- and released. Not now. Later, _after_ he got a good look at Cross's kid. he had a vague idea of waving the photo around and rubbing it in Cross's face before he got his revenge. He turned back to the man and waved at a corner. The movement made his arm and head ache once more. "You – go – go over there. And stay – stay there."

Cross moved over, lowering his hands, and watched as Wesley stumbled over to the drawer upon which the photos stood. When Wesley looked back over his shoulder at him, there seemed just the barest hint of anticipation.

He grabbed the first photo, forcing back an uncontrollable shiver, the sudden premonition that everything was about to change.

_This kid sure looks familiar,_ was his first thought. It took him a very long time to reach – or maybe accept – the next though.

It wasn't just any familiar-looking kid. It was himself.

He grabbed the other photos, his head throbbing from more than just the bruise now. They were all of himself – one of adult him crossing his apartment window, another with Cathy, another again in front of the window, looking out into the distance. He turned around, wanting to yell and scream and tear the answers from Cross, but then he saw more photos, and heard the train rushing by the house once more. It sounded familiar – too familiar.

He hurried to the window, forgetting Cross altogether now, pulled up the blinds, and felt a dull shock at what he saw across the tracks. It was his own apartment. There were no blinds or curtains hanging there – he had never been able to afford any – so he could see Annabelle leaping on the stupid IKEA table _he_ had bought a few months back, a pile of groceries piled along the counters, _his_ bed, _his_ kitchen, _his_ old home...

His home. And Cross had been just across the tracks, had been right there and had never done a thing to him…

He heard movement from Cross's corner and turned around, gun raised again. His voice shook. The shootings, the pain from his arm, and now the photos – it was too much.

"Who are you?" He brandished the photos. Another wave of dizziness and he felt the frame slip slightly from his fingers. "What – what the fuck is this?" Cross didn't answer for a few seconds, but it was a few too much for him. "Tell me!" he shouted, jerking at the gun, aware that his hands were shaking.

"Wesley…" Cross hesitated. "I'm your father."

Wesley shook his head, trying to un-hear those words, the surety behind Cross's voice. "No. No, they told me you killed my father." He waved the gun again. "You killed him!"

"No." Cross moved forward. "Everything they told you was a lie. You are my son."

Wesley backed off and bumped against the table. He sagged against it, dropping the gun to the floor. In his state of numbness, all he was aware of was the water falling from his body onto the floor and the photos he now gripped with all his might. He had to be in some terrible drama, because that was the only thing that could explain the information being thrown at him. He set the photos down and gripped at his head. His father was alive, had been watching him not twenty feet away all this time. He had run from his father. He had tried to shoot his own father.

What kind of a person was he?

He started and looked up when he felt a blanket being draped around his body. Cross was at his side. He tucked it around Wesley's shoulders. Wesley jerked a bit but otherwise let Cross be.

"Thank you," he choked out. He couldn't look at the man yet, afraid of what he would see in his father's face. Hatred? Gloating? Shame?

Cross acknowledged this by pressing the icepack harder. He tilted his head down to look at what Wesley was holding and picked up one of the photos.

"I took this from your backpack when you were six," he said, indicating the first photo Wesley had seen. "You thought you lost it."

He sounded just a little apologetic. Wesley scrubbed at his eyes, not understanding why he should sound so sorry. He didn't think he had a firm enough grip on his emotions to talk. There was a heaving pit of guilt in his stomach that was robbing his brain of words. He stared at the photo, at himself, but most of all at the way Cross held it, both familiar and tender, as if he had looked over it many times before.

Cross took another, the one of Wesley contemplating the view outside. "I liked this one. I always wondered what you were thinking then." He looked at Wesley. "Do you remember?"

Wesley shook his head. He didn't even know what year that had been taken. Feeling more in control, he took the next photo from Cross's hands, the one of Cathy kissing him. A weak laugh escaped from him. "This was back when she still liked me," he said. He put it aside and looked at Cross wonderingly. The man he had been intent on killing just a few moments ago, his real father, was leaning against the table just inches from him. Cross met his gaze but didn't speak.

He let the photos clatter back on the table. "Why…" he gulped back a breath. "Why would… they send me to kill you?" He didn't want to say 'the Fraternity', didn't want to think that the group that had given so much meaning to his life might have deliberately misled him.

Cross glanced at him. "Because you are the one person I would never kill."

Wesley clenched his jaw, betrayal washing over him, wanting to deny it. He said, "No – that's not true. You _did_ want to kill me." He pushed himself off the table to face Cross. "You did try and kill me! You fucking shot me!" Pain ran over his arm as he moved, reminding him. "You were shooting at me in the store, in – in the car, and – _out there_! You were trying to fucking kill me!"

"No." Cross stood up, but though he seemed calm Wesley thought he could feel the slightest hint of desperation. "_No_. I was trying to rescue you."

"_Rescue_ me?" Wesley spat out, backing off even further. "Rescue me… from what?"

"From what used to be the Fraternity." He turned and took something from off the table and handed it to Wesley. It was a cloth, one Wesley recognized as coming from the Loom of Fate.

"Here," Cross said, gesturing to the table they had been leaning against. Propped up against the wall were a lamp and a large magnifying glass. Wesley put the cloth under and grabbed a nearby pen, scrawling out numbers on the glass table. But he had a feeling he already knew what was coming…

"Sloan," he breathed. "Shit."

Everything that had happened to him in the last six weeks was being turned over. Cross had not been attacking him; he had been protecting him. The chase from Wesley's apartment to the train station – had it really been Wesley chasing Cross down, or had Cross been trying to draw him out, away from the Fraternity members? Was that why he had waited until Fox left? And now Wesley remembered the first incident in the supermarket… Had Cross had not been stalking him to take him down? Had he simply been watching over him? There had been moments when Wesley had come close to the man – stumbling down the aisle, as he had run out the store – and Cross had moved towards him as if to attack… but it had not been an attack, had it? When he had been chasing him through traffic afterwards, he had driven up right beside Wesley, had the perfect opportunity to shoot him – but he had not. It had always been Fox he was aiming at…

Cross swiped off the pen marks with his hand. "He had taken over the Loom and started creating his own targets. When I found out, he turned everybody against me… and when I left, he went after you."

Wesley gripped the edge of the table. This was more than finding out a long-lost relation. This was the loss of his entire purpose. He had coasted on the surface of life for so long that to find something he could put everything into, something that seemed almost destined for him – it had been exhilarating. He had finally been a part of something worthwhile, and not just a replaceable cog in the system, filing away billing reports. And now it had come crashing down.

"I never wanted you in the Fraternity," Cross said gently, and Wesley wondered if the man knew the internal conflict he was going through. "I wanted you to have the life I could never have. A normal life."

Wesley laughed bleakly. "I did have that life, remember? I hated it. I was fucking worthless."

"No." Wesley would not have noticed that one word if not for the firmness of his Cross's voice. But before he could fully reflect on that, Cross had gone on: "You had peace. You had a home, friends, family."

"Not every member of the family," Wesley mumbled to the floor.

Cross paused. It took a moment before he said, "I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to live."

Wesley looked up at him. "That wasn't living. That was… fucking mindless drudgery."

Cross made a movement as if he had made to grip Wesley's shoulder but had thought better of it. Instead, he asked "Then what would you do? Be hunted down by the Fraternity?"

Wesley stopped, looked at his father. "Not unless we take them down." Before Cross could get in a word, he said, "That's what you've been doing, right? I saw those people you killed. Sloan said you were picking them off and they couldn't do anything about it." He sat up. "I want to help. Let me help you."

"No. I wanted to take down Sloan alone. Not with you."

"So they're just going to keep trying to kill you and then as soon as you're out of the picture they'll come and kill me because you told me the truth!" Wesley exclaimed. "I don't want to hide, not when I can do all – all this! I don't want to run away!"

"It's to keep you safe-"

"Well I don't want to be kept away from you!" He paused to gather his thoughts, trying not to notice just how intense Cross's gaze had become. He said, in a quieter voice, "I mean… you're my father. I don't know anything about you, but I… I want to." That had felt good and bad – good to get those words out, bad because of how needy he must have sounded. "I can't just let them hunt you and… not do anything about it."

"If you left," said Cross at last, "they would not find you. I would not let them find you."

Wesley sighed, trying to think. Finally, he said the only argument he had left. "You said you wanted me to have a life. Don't you want one too?" He could not quite add in the words he so badly wanted to say - _with me?_ – but he thought the emotion might have come out anyway.

Cross turned away, and for a long moment there was only silence between the two. Wesley tugged the blanket tighter around himself. With nothing else to do, he went to the toppled armchair and righted it, then collected the photos and put them back in their place.

Then he heard Cross speak, very slowly. "I will… think on it, Wesley." He moved towards the younger man and pushed aside the blanket to look at Wesley's wound. The entire bandage was soaked red, some of it seeping through on to the blanket, due to all the gun waving Wesley had put himself through. "I have a bath prepared for you."

"I'm fine," Wesley said. Really, it was just a bit of pain anytime he moved. No big deal.

"You were shot at, knocked out, had a bullet removed from your arm, and have been moving the same arm far too much."

"Yeah… like I said, nothing." He gave a weak chuckle that turned into a sigh as Cross gave him a look and moved him to the bathroom anyway. Wow, when had he suddenly become such a kid?

"I know they're helpful and everything," Wesley muttered, "but I really don't like the baths."

Cross smiled just a bit. "Neither do I."

Wesley felt a grin come over his face. It was such a small thing, but to know that he shared something with this newfound father of his made him ache inside in a very good way. It was a start.

Cross removed the blanket and watched him slide into the bath. Wesley drifted in it, feeling sleep overcome him. It had been a very long, very eventful night.

"Hey, Cross," he said as the man made to leave. He could not call him Dad or Father just yet, but it felt nice to say the man's name without any underlying hatred. "You'll still be here when I'm done, right?" He winced inwardly at the childishness of his words. But inside, he was still the little boy abandoned by his father and who needed just a bit of reassurance to get him through the day.

Perhaps not abandoned, though. Perhaps left alone… but always watched over, until the time was right.

Cross nodded, understanding. "I will."

As he closed the door, Wesley closed his eyes and smiled.


End file.
